.oOo.

The Dead Zone.

Its simple name, baked into both old and young minds, would send shivers down any sapient—a crucible of horror stories and mysteries.

It was once a large expanse of the galaxy, around two-thirds, and teeming with life—beast or intelligent alike. A multitude of alien peoples, too many to count, called it home. War, trade, diplomacy, and scientific study were abundant among these long-standing empires, leagues, and republics.

Until they came.

Invaders from beyond—legion and unending. They came through portals from some nightmare realm. They arrived like a giant maw opening, ready to swallow worlds whole. Their hordes blotted out the sky and tore civilizations asunder.

Starless Horrors.

Eldritch things, every single one. Simply looking at one bleeds the eyes, spawned from a place where no star shone. Did they do it out of a need to consume? A simple biological directive? Or something more sinister? No one knew. I don’t.

We thought the end had come. The Cataclysm. The slaughter of countless trillions and the despair of everyone from the highest magistrate to the lowest civilian. Two decades of desperate struggle and terror.

The survivors of once great races fled to the galactic rim to flee the hated ones, the Exodus.

I nearly broke then, and so too did others in the galaxy. Many had stopped struggling and took the time they had left to make what happy moments they could before the end.

Suddenly—though no one knew why—the attacks slowed.

The numbers that came through their damned portals dwindled. I didn’t know what to make of it.

Soon, however, a renewed vigor burned within us survivors.

A conglomeration of a hundred interstellar nations, the shattered remnants of the old Galactic Accord, and the precursors to the current Galactic Legacy Federation formed a counterattack of a never-before-seen scale.

They struck hard and fast, —years of war waged from a unified galaxy, carrying the heritage of the torn, ruined, and battered. Gone was the infighting of higher powers, the petty battles between rival civilizations.

Gone was the impotence, the stagnation, the despair.

Year after year, world after world; the rise and fall of scores of heroes and legends, and finally . . .

Twenty-seven years after the Starless Horrors came and ravaged our homes, their attacks stopped. Not a trace of their despicable portals nor the beasts themselves was detected for several light-years from the frontline.

After twelve standard months of waiting, the Remnant Council declared the end of the Cataclysm.

But only bittersweetness touched our souls. Barren worlds that had been glassed or poisoned from the war littered the front. The bones of the dead lay silent, terror etched forever on their faces.

And the uncountable fetid, monstrous corpses. Sectors abandoned by their lingering plague, if not purified outright.

From then on, we transformed the frontline into the border separating Legacy space from the Dead Zone. Nothing past the edge could have survived, quarantined for nearly a century. We did not have the resources to take it all back, and even then, why should we?

There is nothing there, I repeat. Only death and the dead. Maybe the hated ones still linger, waiting.

Any who enter will be cut off from communications a few light-years in. The Miasma of the Dead Zone will ensure you get lost without a means to cry for help to those you left back home.

Be not a fool and trespass that cursed expanse; let the bones remain undisturbed. Whatever is left.

—Excerpt from “Silence after Calamity” by Director Kitarii of the One Mind Initiative, 29 DC, after retiring to receive mental help.

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Patriarch Tov had left the command bridge once they entered the hyper-tunnel. This early into the journey through the higher dimension, uncomfortable vertigo had yet to set in. And as an experienced star sailor, he had grown resistant to its more mystical effects. “It shouldn’t take more than a few hours, barring any hiccups with the tunneler matrix.”

Tov strode stoically with both pairs of arms folded behind his back. His colorful cape fluttered behind his long strides, tailored to match his insectoid wings should he unfurl them.

Several ship ratings, deck officers, and marines passed him as he made his way to the Temple of the Grand Symphony—each offering greetings and respect.

“Starlight upon you, my lord.”

“Many greetings, Patriarch.”

“My lord! Nothing like another day in the abyss, yes? No? Never mind.”

Tov chuckled as he waved his antennae in acknowledgement, clicking his mandibles back in polite greeting to the people under his command.

“As you were,” he bid toward a quadrupedal arachnid medical officer.

Soon the hallway transitioned from soft, cool deck lights to warm lanterns. Light bounced off the metal floor and cast beautiful waves upon the walls like a shimmering cave. The crew also became more solemn, more reverent—humming tunes.

Tov approved Legacy’s declaration of freedom to worship any of the endless religions and sects that filled civilized space. Though with the advent of technology, space travel, and the mixing of cultures, many shifted to secular viewpoints. And yet, people, especially sailors, looked to faith for spiritual guidance.

The Eternal Choir held the seat as the galaxy’s prominent church, born from spaceborne civilizations and star shanties. Soon Tov stood before the open doors to the Temple of the Grand Symphony, welcomed by brothers and sisters of the Choir.

“Welcome, Patriarch. May your melody sing true,” one of the clergy spoke in a warm singing voice.

Upon entering the temple hall, he saw beautiful artwork on the vaulted ceiling, depicting a wondrous nebula and glittering stars. He walked through the small temple, enough for the devout to comfortably occupy but devoid of glaring luxury.

After all, one needed the privilege when taking up volume, and the Eternal Choir understood that a vessel’s essential compartments took priority. Nevertheless, the temple evoked a sense of tranquility, like the chirping of small avians fluttering through the wind.

The crew, affected by the graveyard in Alpha Centauri, filled the hall—officers, ship ratings, engineers, and security enforcers. All stood side by side, humming a solemn tune.

Patriarch Tov stood solemnly among the mourners, his heart heavy with grief. He wished to pay his respects and center his thoughts. His wonder shifted toward the person of Captain Alphonso and the AI Ramiel. He focused on their words and emotions as he hummed with his people.

A somber funeral dirge accompanied the public ceremony, one developed by the Eternal Choir for any who died in the coldness of the void. Tov saw Lead Harmonizer Volantesh of the Eternal Choir take center stage; the avian represented the clergy in the Third Expeditionary Fleet with his ability to evoke raw emotions through his singing. Tov watched Volantesh prepare his voice, readying himself to direct the hundreds of musicians and vocalists.

The Choir, other Harmonizers, and Volantesh’s fellows, composed of various alien races, stood in their flowing robes of earthen tones and sang. The musicians played their instruments, adding to the composition with an array of strings, wind, and percussive sounds. Their voices blended into a hauntingly beautiful melody that echoed throughout the chamber. Tov sunk into the music—the emotions deep within him and his people surged as they became immersed in their song.

Volantesh approached the podium and sang in a beautiful baritone, echoing throughout the hall and evoking tears from the gathered.

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“Sing, oh voices of the fallen, let your hymns ring out across the void. Your melody echoes through the ages, and your voice carries on the winds of fate. Though your journey has ended, your memory lives on.

May your souls find peace in the rivers of the Grand Symphony.

Sing, oh, voices of the fallen.

Sing, that your souls may rest.”

The Choir picked up, repeating the words in Commonspiel and then Eterna, an ancient tongue used by the first Harmonizers. Soon, the crew sang along, hands, claws, or tentacles held together, linking everyone. Patriarch Tov also sang along, adding to the smooth harmony.

Eventually, the Choir’s voices trailed off as Volantesh and the other Harmonizers took a deep bow. Tov felt the weight of the loss and the hope in the song and allowed it to settle into his heart—the memory of the departed in his soul, at peace.

The ceremony concluded with a moment of silence as the congregation paid their final respects to the fallen of Alpha Centauri. Then, slowly, the crew exited the temple. Some stayed longer, those on leave or an extended break from their duties.

Tov stayed for a while before leaving himself. He thanked the Choir, spoke to Volantesh, and praised his voice.

“All for the Grand Symphony, Patriarch,” Volantesh spoke, carrying a solemn melody.

“Song be with you, Lead Harmonizer. I hope to see you in better times,” Tov replied before bowing his head in thanks.

“Song be with you as well, my lord.” Volantesh bowed in turn.

Tov stepped out of the temple, the heavy doors closing behind him with a resounding thud. The journey through the winding corridors of the Nomadic Shepherd took him half an hour, his footsteps echoing against the metal floors as he ascended to a different level.

Finally, he arrived at the grand entrance of his estate, a towering pair of opulent doors that stood as a barrier between him and the outside world.

Unlocking the intricate mechanisms, Tov pushed the doors open and stepped into his sanctuary. The fleet had spared no expense in providing him with the highest level of accommodations and protection, placing his estate close to the center of the Nomadic Shepherd and ensconcing it within layers of impenetrable armor. A sense of relief washed over him as he crossed the threshold.

Tranquility filled the air around his estate. It appeared as though a sprawling jungle had been transplanted inside the flagship, with towering trees approaching an artificial blue sky. But Tov knew the truth of the illusion—a meticulously crafted projection by Kurskann artisans, bioengineers, and gardeners, designed to create an atmosphere of natural beauty.

At the heart of this oasis stood the centerpiece of Tov’s estate—a structure inspired by Kurskann architecture, reminiscent of the twisting and colossal trees that once graced their lost homeworld. Though it appeared to be constructed from wood, the material was as resilient and defensible as the fortresses found throughout the Legacy.

Tov inhaled the moist and almost natural air, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. He walked along a path of smooth, cobbled stones flanked by vibrant greenery as he made his way to the place he had called home since the expedition began.

Entering his office, Tov found solace in its familiar embrace—a space where he could work privately and find respite from the demands of his position. Before him was a wide window encompassing the entire wall. A massive terrarium he painstakingly tended to during his free time filled the space behind the glass. Verdant flora and fluttering butterflies and insects inhabited this miniature world while a soft, misty waterfall cascaded over the chiseled, mossy rocks.

To his left was his desk, the wall behind filled with the cherished possessions that brought him joy—his family portraits and memorabilia from times long gone. Low shelves lined with hardcover books and glass cabinets filled with his collection of liquors salvaged from their journey occupied the rest of the walls. The light was somber, like the inside of a shimmering cave.

Finally, a pristine music player sat proudly in the corner, ready to fill the air with harmonious melodies. He sent a small piece of data through his cybernetic implant toward his music player.

As Tov sat on his leather armchair, he closed his eyes and let the music take over.

His people found this human piece among the wreckage of Vinland—a song titled “Wind of Change” by a band calling themselves the Scorpions.

The soft strumming of a guitar emerged from his music player, and after a few seconds, the first words came forth. Patriarch Tov listened to this piece of music sung in its native language. Soon, the mournful voice of the singer filled the room, and Tov felt the sadness seeping into his bones.

He listened to the lyrics, each word heavy, reminding Tov of life’s fragility, the pain that came with loss, and the hope that could be found in moving forward. He let himself sink deeper and immersed himself in the winds of music.

I follow the Moskva

Down to Gorky Park

Listening to the wind of change

An August summer night

Soldiers passing by

Listening to the wind of change

The world is closing in

And did you ever think

That we could be so close, like brothers

The future’s in the air

I can feel it everywhere

Blowing with the wind of change

Take me to the magic of the moment

On a glory night

Where the children of tomorrow dream away

In the wind of change

Tov sank deeper into his chair while listening to the human singer’s melodic voice.

As a race that grew from ambush-hunting insects, Tov’s race surprised the other galaxy’s denizens with how in tune they were with the emotions of others. Patriarch Tov waved his antennae about and tapped his claws on his armrest as he immersed himself in the vivid song.

Despite not knowing the language, he knew the intent.

Peace.

Freedom.

Hope.

Inside the confines of his stateroom, Patriarch Tov couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. Memories of the past flittered through his mind as he remembered flashes of his long life.

Most of all, he deeply missed his starlight, Yoram, and his little comet, Uli. He spun his chair behind him to look at the wall, looking at the framed painting that took up the center spot—a portrait of his bonded and hatchling. He grew silent, staring.

He allowed his vision to dim, thinking back. “It’s been too long . . . Maybe . . . maybe I shouldn’t have left.”

He felt alone in this room, in this ship, so deep in the Dead Zone. His self slid deeper into imagery conjured by the song’s choruses and verses that melded together.

At one moment, he felt the collective sadness that permeated this region of space. But then, the heartache grew intense as his two hearts matched the song’s beat.

The song went on, and the patriarch continued to listen. He had never felt and empathized so profoundly with a piece apart from the hymns crafted by the church of the Eternal Choir. His claws gripped his armrests, and his antennae swung with the rhythm.

Soon, sadly, it slowly faded, and the silence brought Tov out of his immersion.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “May you join the revered Choir on high and sing eternally.”

He sighed, content as his attention looked at the pile of letters, most crumpled up and scattered haphazardly at the corner of his desk—one sat clean before him, unfinished. The next moment, he grabbed a pen and began writing.

While doing so, Tov pressed a finger against his temple. “Include a data package of all the culture we harvested in the next dead drop.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the response.

He buzzed, ending the short call. “I wish we could have listened to this together.”

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After a long nap, Tov awoke reinvigorated and euphoric after being cleansed of the emotions brought out by that human song. He mused that whoever wrote and played it must have been an incredible figure among the humans to produce such fine work.

Still, as much as he wished to listen to more human music, duty swamped his life. And, as soon as he rose from his bed, he heard a mental chime through his cranial implant.

My patriarch, we will reach Sol within the next twenty minutes.

The familiar voice of Admiral Yan resounded in his mind, prompting the patriarch to hasten his morning routine.

After ensuring his obsidian carapace was pristine, he devoured a light meal of nuts and fungus and quickly returned to the command bridge.

As soon as he stepped onto the bridge, the command staff stood and saluted the highest authority of the fleet.

“At ease, everyone.”

Patriarch Tov settled on his high seat as everyone sat back down and resumed their respective tasks. He subconsciously clicked his mandibles as an inkling of hyper-tunneling nausea crept in.

Tov turned toward his second-in-command. “Good day, Yan. Report.”

Admiral Yan saluted before reading out what had happened during his slumber. A long list of boring logistics and numbers flew through his head as the fleet remained in contact with the higher dimensions, causing the patriarch to motion for the admiral to move along.

“The distribution of human arts has massively improved the morale of the fleet, my patriarch,” Yan hummed.

“Oh? Tell me more.”

“Well, the sheer amount in the databases we’ve recovered from the human wreckage had plenty of material that suited everyone’s taste,” Yan spoke as she brought up the data. “I am enjoying a novel, Heart of Metal, by human author Alexander Evangelista.”

“Genre?” Tov inquired.

“Romance,” Yan muttered, low enough so the rest of the bridge remained unaware, before throwing a glare toward Tov. “Don’t even start.”

“I always knew you had a soft spot under that hard layer of chitin,” Tov chuckled, his antennae swaying back and forth. Yan sighed in defeat.

Once Tov finished expressing his glee, he continued. “That is wonderful news, Admiral. It may not be advanced relics or superweapons. Still, a fallen race’s culture is more than worth the effort.”

The patriarch’s antennae waved about, pleased at the current events. “This author, Evangelista. What caught your interest?”

Admiral Yan buzzed as she interlocked her clawed hands in thought. “The AI . . . Ramiel from the recording. I wished to research more of her kind and found this author. Alexander Evangelista emerged when these so-called synthetic humans were first made. He avidly supported their apparent sapience and wrote many works depicting cooperation between humans and machines.”

“Interesting,” Tov hummed. “I may have to study his works myself.”

Yan coughed into her fist. “Just be careful, my patriarch. Some parts in the novel are a bit risqué.”

Tov turned his head in curiosity at her remark, but a familiar sound echoed through the ship before he could ask for details.

“My lord, we are about to reemerge into real space,” an officer reported.

The command bridge immediately grew serious, and the sailors took their respective places.

Patriarch Tov sunk into his chair as the fleet prepared to exit the hyper-tunnel.

“We’ll talk more about distributing human culture to our people, Yan,” Tov spoke as he settled into his seat.

Admiral Yan bowed her head, refocusing on the multitude of monitors before her.

“Exiting in five, four, three . . .”

Soon, the Third Fleet shimmered within the otherworldly dimension that surrounded them and slowly entered the Sol system. The fog obscured the fleet momentarily, the tunneler matrixes worked overtime, and the crew held their breaths. Then, finally, they returned to real space with a pop—the visual beauty of the tunnel fading into the black of the void.

And immediately, the Nomadic Shepherd shook painfully as it collided with something massive.